Injustice Deliciously Squared
by Robin Mask
Summary: Scar hated his brother. He hated how Mufasa was the favourite, the 'king' of their father's company, the one with the sheer brute strength . . . most of all he hated what Mufasa did to him. One-Shot.


**A/N: **This is my first _Lion King _fiction, which I was admittedly coerced into writing. I have anthropomorphised the characters and placed them in a human setting. This is a one-shot and will contain adult themes.

Dedicated to LadyArn and 'Raven'.

Injustice Deliciously Squared

Oh, sometimes his brother could be so _very _frustrating . . .

Scar allowed his fingers to gracefully move over a family photo. The silver frame was cold to the touch, the gilded pattern rather elegant and yet rough beneath his fingertips, and as he stroked its surface he smiled to see how the dust had been disturbed upon the desk. Did he _really _think that Scar wouldn't notice? It was so obvious, like a deep cut across the filth and dirt that marked it forever, and the only thing to do would be to move the frame back into its exact position or to wipe away the dust forever . . . he would leave it. Such a silly and subtle thing only served to prove how ineffectual and unobservant his brother truly was, and that was something he could always appreciate.

Someone had been in his room, that much was obvious. _Mufasa _had been in his room. It was just so ridiculously evident that Scar almost pitied his brute of a brother, but – considering how Mufasa had been blessed with a handsome façade, brute strength and popularity – he refused to give into foolish sentimentality and feel a remote ounce of sympathy for the man that had raided his belongings. Scar was meticulous in his room's organisation, and – so far – he had found so many things out of place that it was not even funny.

His bedcovers were perfectly smooth as always but no longer tucked, his curtains were still closed but there was a centimetre gap between the two pieces of fabric, and many of his personal items were somewhat in subtly different positions. It was a very admirable attempt at a search and raid, but Mufasa was a fool if he thought someone like Scar would keep anything incriminating in such an obvious place as his bedroom. He was tenacious in his ability to plan and act, he knew exactly what to show to his brother and what to hide, and so he religiously made sure to delete his messages, erase his computer history, and to leave any physical evidence with his acquaintances rather than at home. Whatever it was that Mufasa was looking for he wouldn't find it, that much Scar could say for certain, and besides . . . he was being watched. If Scar overreacted or displayed any irritation then Mufasa would know. He would _know. _He would be as good as confessing if he so much as displayed an iota of frustration with his infuriating brother, and yet -! Would it not be equally as suspicious if he displayed no anger at all? Well, he would just have to take his chances.

Scar let out a long sigh and threw his college bag down onto the floor. He could already hear his brother's voice criticising his indifference towards his belongings, his uncaring attitude towards the dust in the room, but truthfully he saw no reason to care for such trivial and mediocre things. This room was merely a stepping-stone. It was a temporary refuge for him to reside in until he took the thing that really mattered. One day he would have it all . . . he would have the house, the business, and the _power_ . . . and then moments like these would be nothing but a memory. One day he would be the one to have the power, one day it would be _Mufasa _at the bottom of the food chain clawing his way up . . . one day he would make his brother _suffer_.

There was a strong and heavy scent of cologne from across his bedroom that alerted him at once to the presence of his older brother, forever inferior in the art of camouflage and subterfuge, by the seems of it he was hiding behind an ornate screen that separated Scar's four-poster bed and sleeping area from the rest of the room. The screen was a work of art in itself. It was aligned along his desk, so that one could work whilst another rested without being seen or distracting the other, but as the two brothers had their own rooms – and as Scar slept alone – it was there solely for aesthetical reasons as opposed to any practical purpose. Regardless, Scar adored the way that the screen was carved with intricate tribal patterns and beautiful tableaux of lions in their natural habitat, and through the small holes in the patterning he could catch a glimpse of the dark and shadowy figure of his brother. Surely he was not even attempting to hide? If he was then he could have clearly sat down so that the solid blocks of wood would have hidden him, or perhaps he could have sat on the bed and drawn the bed-curtains, but to just _stand _there . . .

Well, his brother always was the arrogant one. Why even _try _to hide when you can just as easily announce your presence, admit that you raided and searched a man's room, and then bask in your own over-inflated ego? He would never be punished for his actions, whereas Scar would be forced to suffer over and over in his brother's place, and his brother couldn't care less. Just so long as Scar suffered, not him, then all was _right _with the world.

"Have you been waiting long, brother dear?"

Scar smirked as he watched his brother step from behind the screen. He always admired how the older man walked with such confidence and strength, his back always straight and his stride always long and powerful. It was admirable, he had all the perfect body language and natural charisma that any politician would envy, and yet he lacked certain street smarts and an awareness that would have _truly _made him great, but – as it was – Mufasa was all brawns with no brain. Scar had followers, too. Scar had many people who would kill for him, _die _for him, and _not_ because he was physically strong, but because he had the _intelligence _and gift of rhetoric that his brother lacked. It would only be time before he proved just who of the pair was truly the most superior.

Mufasa strode into the centre of the room purposefully and gracefully, moving slowly and with such consideration that it was as if he saw life as but a stage, walking as if walking to address an audience, as if to command attention. His broad shoulders filled out his suit perfectly, giving him a rather blocky appearance that only added to his masculine features, and as he stood he did so in such a manner that he appeared to take up the space of the entire room, demanding respect even though he had not yet said a word. His face was an expressionless mask. It was only his reddish-brown eyes that expressed his frustration, those eyes the colour of fallen autumn leaves that narrowed into a look of distaste, and around those eyes the skin crinkled to express a man that was fast moving into middle-age. His thick red hair was loose about his shoulders, wild like a mane, and it was so healthy and luxurious that he appeared to be like a typical expectation one had when one thought of a modern businessman; he was someone who could be free, liberal, and wild, yet still maintained dignity, professionalism, and respectability.

"You are late, Scar."

Ah, yes, Mufasa . . . man of few words, or at least when the mood took him. He only hoped there was not a lecture coming, his brother was such a _fan _of sentimental philosophy and guilt-trips, he would rattle on and on as if the world cared what nonsense he spouted, telling tales of ancestors and kings and the stars above, and all the while he would expect his audience to listen enraptured, when really it was all that they could do to stay awake. Mufasa felt like a broken record. If Scar had to listen to one more lecture on morality, one more foolish story about 'the circle of life' or how their grandparents watched down on them from the stars . . . if life were a film then Scar would have _gladly _hit the fast-forward button at those moments.

"So I am," Scar replied.

He tried not to look too closely at the golden-brown suit his brother wore. Did he truly think that he looked good? He looked ridiculous. He was no different to the hundreds of other men that went into his brother's building day in and day out; each one trying to maintain that sense of decorum and perfection that was built into the uniform code, and each one trying to outdo one another as they strived to look more handsome and beautiful than each man that came before them. What did they think of Scar, he wondered, did they think him as ugly as he felt?

Scar sloped further into the room, keeping his green eyes focused on his brother's figure. He knew better than to ever look away from a potential enemy, Mufasa was far stronger than he was, should the older man ever choose to take his younger brother head on then he would be defeated most gravely. Scar merely watched the older man and headed towards the slightly partitioned off part of his room, as he moved he did so with each foot directly placed in front of the other, a rather feminine trait he would admit, but somehow such a walk felt far more natural to him than a typical masculine manner of movement. He had always been teased for the swinging of his hips, the way he appeared to walk as if he strove to walk along an invisible line, but he knew how enticing such a walk could be. It made him look more casual, it made him look weaker, and it made him look feminine . . . not only did no one see him as a threat, but it was so easily to distract the weaker minds with the sensual movements, as if his movements suggested at something more sexual, at something more to come.

He shed his coat as he walked, allowing it to slide from his shoulders and drop to the floor in a rather careless manner, as he reached the bed he allowed his long fingers to stroke along the nearest poster, his fingertips tracing the carvings in the darkened wood, his eyes never leaving his brother's as he continued the rather suggestive action. He didn't stop until his hand encased the poster and began to stroke upwards and downwards. A dangerous growl escaped Mufasa's lips, almost as if he sensed that his younger brother was mocking him, but Scar merely carried on with his dangerous smile and tilted his head slightly to one side.

"Come now, brother," Scar said softly, brushing a hand through his raven coloured hair as he spoke softly in his typical drawl. "I am _surely _excused just this once for being late? It is not as though I have a _reason _to come home, is it? I merely have a few pieces of homework to do. I don't have the responsibilities of managing a large company . . . _yet_."

"The responsibilities of managing the company will never be yours, Scar."

"Oh, I wouldn't say _that_. If you neglect to have an heir then I'm sure such responsibilities would fall upon my far more capable shoulders, but you are such a family man . . . I suppose my day will never come."

Scar realised the implication of his words. If Mufasa was to produce an heir then that heir would inherit should his brother die, not Scar, but for Scar to inherit the business would mean for his brother to die before his time . . . to die before an heir could be born. It wasn't that he _wanted _Mufasa to die, but his brother was simply so infuriating and inferior! It was _Scar _who was studying business and economics at university, and it was _Scar _who had an innate grasp of psychology and rhetoric, and it was _Scar _who had wanted the business more than anything.

It simply wasn't fair! Mufasa was always the favourite child, the one who only had to ask for something in order to get everything, and whilst the family fussed and fawned over him it simply felt like Scar was always left in the shadows, left to watch from the darkness as his brother was thrust into the spotlight. Their mother still pushed Scar to achieve his best, telling him that one-day his time would come, but what did she know? She would always be second-fiddle to the 'king' of the house, the master of all who resided in their less-than-modest family home, and just so long as their father had the wonderful Mufasa to run the business and inherit from him when the time came then he had no need for Scar. Scar was just the spare . . . the heir and the spare. Their father forgot his very existence, Mufasa's new girlfriend treated him like a lost cause, their mother piled all her neglected hopes onto his shoulders . . . Mufasa saw him as a lost soul whose duty it was to bring back into light, to help grow and to nurture, and it was Mufasa who always had such undying faith in him. It was misplaced faith. Why wouldn't Mufasa just give up? Why did he think Scar was anything more than what he was, just an intelligent teenager who was at the shallow end of the gene pool as far as looks and strength went? His brother was a fool.

Scar drew in a deep breath and reached down to grab the hem of his brown, polo-neck sweatshirt. It took him only one swift and quick movement to pull the article of clothing over his head, exposing his chest and back to his brother's roaming eye, and as he threw the sweatshirt to the ground he could see his brother's chest heave heavily in frustration, the urge to clean up after Scar's messes almost too much to bear. Scar merely smiled at his brother, trying to ignore the hideous stinging around his eye, but he managed to hide his pain well and instead swayed and swept to the far corner of the bed, gracefully undoing the far curtain so as to allow it to fall.

One by one he let all the curtains fall . . .

He wondered how he looked in the dark room, the only light being that from the hallway that seeped through the open door and the moonlight that shined through the gap in the curtains. He imagined his brother checking over his brown skin for any new markings; skin the colour of melted milk chocolate, so pure and rich that it reflected all the admirable and beautiful races that had gone into creating the two young brothers, skin that Mufasa always loved to taste and feel, almost as if it was as sweet to taste as it so appeared. It was only a shame that Scar was so thin and frail, his height at least several inches shorter than Mufasa's, and his body so slight that should he lose any more weight his ribs would surely begin to show. He would never have the tough, masculine, muscular build of his brother, but he still liked to think he was somewhat handsome as far as his body went. His face was ugly, he knew that, but he liked his body . . . even if it made him weak.

"Don't ignore me, Scar. Don't turn your back on me."

Scar knew better than to respond to that. He knew that with one sarcastic word or warning phrase that his brother would see it as a personal challenge, that he would actually go so far as to instigate a fight, and – even though Scar could hold his own – he knew that he would never win in a battle with his brother. If it was as easy as throwing a well-placed punch to put Mufasa in his place then he would have tried long ago, and he would have failed many times over in the process. No, the easiest thing to do would be to ignore his brother today . . . he was in no mood for fighting or dramatics. It was better to ignore the bait than to allow himself to be hooked.

"I wouldn't _dream _of turning my back on you, Brother," Scar said softly, already beginning to pull upon the buckle of his belt as he spoke. "_I _know better than to ignore a potential threat when I see one, but I also know when it is best to ignore a potential challenge." He managed to undo his belt and slid it from the hooks of his trousers. "I can't ever ignore _you_."

The bitterness in his voice was only emphasised by the physical pain he felt surrounding his eye. It was hard to ignore. The cut that ran down from his beautifully arched and sculpted eyebrow went quite far down onto his cheek, it was still red and raised as if it hadn't even begun to heal at all, and his only consolation was that the cut had not touched his eye in the slightest. If he had only been an inch closer to his attacker, or if his attacker had felt more vindictive, then he may have lost his eye altogether or at the very least been blinded. It would scar, but at least he would be able to see. Mufasa, however, did not view the event with the same optimism.

Scar glared at his brother who refused to lower himself to such basic displays of emotion, instead he merely watched Scar with a rather disinterested gaze, hiding his feelings behind a mask of indifference. Scar responded by undoing the button to his trousers and allowing them to fall. He was clad only in his underwear, and as he stepped out of the fallen garments he toed off his shoes and socks in the process. He could feel Mufasa's eyes narrow and watch him intently. He knew that his brother was extremely passionate, that he had a wild and untameable nature hidden beneath his cool and controlled exterior, and he knew that Mufasa liked to dominate all that he came into contact with. That was not to say his was violent, no . . . his _darling _big brother would never be violent except in self-defence, but when it came to Mufasa he just commanded respect and expected submission by all those around him. It was probably that natural need to dominate that was the cause of such conflict between the pair over the years.

"I suppose you're still angry with me," Scar stated simply. "Is that why you're here? You wish to _punish_ me? Well, I am never one to shy from a challenge when one presents itself, if you wish to abuse me or use me then I won't disallow it . . . after all, I _can't _stop you, Mufasa. We both know that this _weak_ and _frail_ body hasn't the strength to defend itself against the sheer brute strength of my older brother."

Scar found his body freezing in fear as his brother stormed across the room and took a hold of him firmly by his upper arms. Mufasa's grip was so strong that Scar could feel his dark skin beginning to bruise underneath those thick fingers; it felt like a cruel and burning embrace, his skin sore and aching, and as much as he wanted Mufasa to let him go he knew better than to fight him. He knew that this was all part of his brother's desire to be in control, and he also knew that by his own relinquishing of control he was in a far better position to gain what he wanted. Let Mufasa hurt him, it would only reinforce his brother's belief that Scar was weak, and the weaker he felt Scar was then the less of a threat he would see him as.

"Do you have _any _idea what you did, Scar?" Mufasa said.

His voice was calm, eerily so, but the very act of how he threw Scar down upon the bed displayed a great amount of anger and rage. Scar's black hair fell about his face, blocking his green eyes for a brief moment so that he couldn't see all that was about him, and he felt oddly prone and vulnerable as he lay sprawled upon his side. He pulled himself further up the bed so that he was lying fully across its centre, and then rolled over onto his back so that he could see Mufasa completely.

The older man stood at the edge of the bed, his large hands wafting the curtains away from him so that they fell behind him, almost framing him . . . adding to his majesty in a strange and surreal way, as if they extended from him, as if they were a part of him, as if Mufasa had control of even the inanimate and lifeless world around him just as much as he had control of his family and business associates. His chest was extended like a bird of the wild, almost as if he sought to garner attention, and his head was high and his gaze was deep and penetrative. Scar watched him as he loosened his tie, watched him as he undid the top few buttons to his shirt and slid off his jacket, and as he watched him he could feel a deep and dark churning in the pit of his stomach. It was a sense of revulsion and fear. He hated himself for allowing someone he so despised to touch him, but he also acceded to the fact with a bitter reluctance and understanding. Some things were just inevitable, this was just one of those things, Scar knew that better than anyone.

"You disappoint me," Mufasa said calmly, shedding himself of his shirt. "Are you truly so jealous of me that you would risk your own life just to spite me? That gang could have easily killed you; why did you lead me there? Do you truly think me so egotistical that I would risk my life in a fight over something so trivial? The leader insulted me, but it was foolish to try and instigate a fight over that."

"I know," Scar said, a dangerous smirk pulling at his lips. "I was an envious bastard. I may have gotten the idea from some close acquaintances of mine . . . they had the idea that if I led you to such a place, that if I allowed the leader to insult you, that you may get into a physical altercation. I was under the impression that if you were badly injured, humiliated and mortified, that Father may see you as the pathetic weakling of a man that you really are. I saw it as my chance to get what was owed to me. You owe me everything, Mufasa."

"You could have been killed! You were lucky that I came back when I did, because if I hadn't then you may well have been . . . it makes me glad that he cut your face as he did. I hope that every time you look in the mirror that it'll remain a physical reminder of your own foolish pride, of your own stupidity, and I hope that it'll remind you to never act in such a manner ever again."

"Hope is the last refuse of the hopeless."

The growl that escaped Mufasa's mouth was so powerful, so dangerous, that it cut through Scar like a knife. It was a primal sound, something so dark that it spoke volumes of rage and violence that only the wildest of animals could possible comprehend and endure, and it made Scar feel physically sick in his stomach. A cold wave of dread washed over him. He felt his blood drain from his skin, his face feeling oddly hot despite how pale he no doubt appeared, and his head felt so light that he could barely concentrate. He deserved credit for refusing to shiver or cry or even reject his brother's advances, but Mufasa had always been the 'alpha male' and he knew better now than to fight things. It was easier to play along than it was to argue.

Scar watched as Mufasa crawled onto the bed. He could feel the mattress dip and move as his brother crawled above him, and as the bed curtains closed behind him the very last ounces of light vanished into oblivion . . . it was a cold and horrid feeling, as if he was being absorbed into the night itself, locked in his own private hell, but at the same time it was rather comforting. It was comforting to know he had managed to exert _some _control over the situation, whether he could control what was to come or not. He at the very least could control the darkness.

He was beyond grateful that he had closed the bed-curtains, the very last thing he wanted was to see that gloating and grateful face above him twisted in pleasure, and gloating was exactly what it would be. That face was etched deep into Scar's memory and subconscious. He would never forget it, no matter how much he would want to, and what he hated most of all was how his brother would always look so condescending, so enraptured, and so full of pride . . . Mufasa would never outright laugh or mock, but it was plain in his every expression that he took pleasure in the control he had over his brother – over everyone for that matter – and that he enjoyed the power he had. Scar did _not _want to see that face. He would turn his back on Mufasa whenever he felt it was safe to, usually in the company of his brother's business associates when his brother could not resort to extreme measures, but any time he did not have to look at that face – that face that had stolen so much from him – was nothing but pure bliss. His brother deserved nothing, and one day he would steal it all from Mufasa the way that Mufasa had stolen it from him.

Scar listened to the sounds of his brother undressing above him. He hated the way that the bed constantly felt as if it was moving, almost like being at sea where it was impossible for one to keep steady, and every time Mufasa moved he caught the heady scent of cologne that overwhelmed his senses. There was the occasional grunt of frustration emitted from his brother, and once or twice he felt slight grazes of knuckles upon his skin as Mufasa struggled to remove his clothing and accidentally touched against his brother's flesh. Each and every touch made his flesh crawl and his body tense considerably. There were times when he could almost enjoy what happened, pretending in the darkness that it was someone other than Mufasa caressing him, but today his anger was at a livid peak . . . today he could not forget that it was Mufasa touching him, he could not forget his disgust.

In a matter of seconds he could feel his father's favourite child pressed against him. He was already completely naked; Scar could feel his brother's erection pressed against his own boxer-clad crotch, although it was only half-hard . . . it was warm and solid, an ever-present reminder of the act that was to come, of the intimacy that they both shared. It was in a way rather arousing to know that – even in the dark – he could arouse Mufasa to such an extent that his brother felt aroused and excited to be near him, that he wanted Scar sexually, and yet it was also terrifying . . .

"It seems that Daddy's favourite wants to go slow today," Scar mocked.

He wasn't sure why he said it, after all it wasn't often that Mufasa went slowly and gently, just enjoying the feeling of their bodies pressed purely and naked against one another, but for some reason he felt such anger and rage that he felt obliged to antagonise that man above him. He knew that Mufasa was furious, it was easy enough to bring out that rage at the best of times, but with him already being so enraged it would perhaps be enough to push him into a violent heat, to cause him such inflamed passions that he would take Scar to the point of breaking him.

Scar was a coward. He would admit to cowardice, to hating pain and fights, but at the same time the act between them was so much easier to endure when Mufasa _was_ violent. If his brother was inflamed with rage then he was more likely to act out of lust alone than love, and that Scar could handle. He did not want Mufasa to _love_ him. He wanted Mufasa to _trust _him, that was necessary in order to take his position at the company from him, but he could not – _would _not – want the older man to _love _him. The love of a buffoon was never something he could want. Scar knew well that love and trust weren't mutually exclusive, but that did not mean that one automatically meant the acquisition of the other. Mufasa loved him, _unfortunately_, but he did not completely trust him . . . Scar would have to work very hard to gain his trust, and – as far as he was concerned – he could begin that by giving into his brother's feral demands, by ceasing his pathetic attempts at self-defence. It was far easier to trust someone who _appeared _to trust you.

Mufasa growled loudly at Scar's insult. The younger man knew _exactly _what angered his brother, and accusations of favouritism – the implication that he didn't achieve his position in the company through skill alone – infuriated Mufasa more than anything. He hated any challenge to his authority, any insult that insinuated he was less than perfect, and so the change in his demeanour was instantaneous; his previous gentleness was now replaced by that anger which lay dormant in his soul, causing him to burst out into a violent temper. Scar smiled rather warmly at the change, just so long as he played along then Mufasa would be contented.

He had to wince somewhat as his elder brother grabbed him harshly by his hair. He could feel those thick fingers wrap deeply into his long, black hair, the pulling sensation was so severe that he could feel his scalp burning and he hissed loudly in pain, he suddenly had lost the control he sought so much in his life to gain, and as Mufasa tugged hard upon his hair he was forced to move his head backwards and bear his neck to his brother. It was a horribly vulnerable pose.

It was hard not to react. He wanted nothing more than to push hard against Mufasa and throw him off, or to scratch or claw at his brother until he was as scarred and cut as Scar was from his fight with those gang members, but he maintained every ounce of self-control that he had. He let Mufasa take control. It was not worth all the violence and pointless fighting that would occur should he _deign _to assert his own rights, and so it would be best to let his brother do as he wished and try to exact revenge at a later date, using his brains rather than brawn to make his brother suffer greatly. He would not let his brother get away with using him like this, but – at the same time – he knew there was nothing he could do to stop it. So when Mufasa yanked his head back, when Mufasa roared in frustration, when Mufasa tried to prove his worth by taking his brother sexually . . . Scar merely let him. It was better in the long run and – if he could not stop the inevitable – it was best to lessen his suffering in whatever way he could.

"A friend of father's asked me a question earlier today," Mufasa said gruffly, his hands teasing the waistband of his teenage brother's boxers. "He asked me if I loved you, you . . . you who causes so much trouble and rebels so strongly. I couldn't answer him. In all honesty I adore you, but it frustrates me to see you throw away all your potential, to cast aside your talents. I expect more from you, Scar."

"So how _did _you reply? If you think so lowly of me as our father then I doubt you have much to say at all, he breaks his promises so easily . . . trying to obtain the love of a man like that is like trying to hold onto water with your fingers."

"He had responsibilities and duties, Scar. You forget that there are more important things in the world than yourself, that the world would still revolve without you, and that – although Father loves you – sometimes he has more important matters to attend to. If you must know . . . I told our father's friend that it was my duty to protect you, and that I would defend you to the death. I would kill for you, die for you, and as my brother you are more to me than my own life. I hate the way you act at times, but I love you, Brother. Do not doubt my love."

Scar gasped in surprise as his brother let go of his hair to move his hand down to join his other at the waistband of his underwear, and – in a few precious seconds – had pulled them down and off from Scar completely, leaving him utterly nude and vulnerable. He daren't look down lest somehow, in the darkness, he see his own length exposed to his very eyes. He didn't want to see his own vulnerability. He didn't want to be forced to acknowledge his own weakness and his own dependency on the mercies of his brother, and yet he had a morbid curiosity to see more, to _know _more, because it seemed like a blasphemy to live in such ignorance, to pretend that such events were not occurring. The event would occur whether he wanted it to or not, but he could not allow himself to be ignorant. It was comforting in a way . . . the more he knew the more in control he felt, the more he could detach himself, and yet it was not enough. It would never be enough.

It seemed that his brother's definition of 'love' just happened to coincide with Scar's definition of 'dominance', because no sooner had the deprived his brother of his clothing did he begin his exploration of his body. Scar could feel his rough and calloused fingers touching his body, stroking him and caressing him much like one would to do a lover, and yet there was a slight feeling of detachment there, almost as if he was merely going through the motions, like a puppet pulled by invisible strings, acting without feeling, feeling without understanding . . .

His brother moved his hands up and down along Scar's body, making the younger man hitch his breath as his brother touched areas of him that were surprisingly sensitive and always had been. He could feel those fingertips light and yet firm upon his stomach muscles, then how they trailed along his chest where – lying down – his ribs felt rather prominent underneath exploring digits, and finally they came to rest upon his upper chest, touching his nipples as if he genuinely thought that Scar could feel pleasure from such foreplay. There was – admittedly and unfortunately – an arousing feeling from having his most erogenous zone played with, to have it teased and touched, the fingers tracing the pink soft skin around them before pulling and flicking them in alternating motions, and – although he hated it – those fingers managed to pull from him some physically enjoyable sensations. He hated himself for beginning to feel the slight tug of arousal, but there was nothing he could do to prevent it, although he felt somewhat nauseous and sickened by his own body's reactions. His brother's mouth kept low, residing at his abdomen, kissing him and suckling at him . . . what enjoyment could Mufasa get from such an act? Did the very attempt at arousing Scar arouse him in return?

Even after all this time it still felt strange to feel that hot, rough tongue upon his stomach. It was such an intimate act, one that Mufasa absolutely adored . . . so much so that even when his brother _wasn't _screwing him into the mattress he still enjoyed such intimate actions. Mufasa always liked to nuzzle against Scar when they sat beside one another watching television, or sneak up behind him in the kitchen and lick a long line down his neck, and when they were alone . . . intimate . . . he would suckle at Scar's nipples, suck upon his inner thigh, or merely lick every inch of skin. Scar couldn't stand such feelings, but he could never help how his body would react.

Today Mufasa seemed content to use his hands to play with his brother's chest whilst his mouth worked to lick and suck upon his stomach, occasionally swirling his tongue within his bellybutton or nipping along his inner thigh, carefully avoiding any contact with his genitalia as he did so. The bites were hard enough to leave little marks and bruises on Scar's dark skin, but not deep enough to leave indentations or draw blood, and for some reason . . . despite how Scar hated pain . . . those painful nips combined with the playing of his nipples only helped to boost his own growing erection.

Why was Mufasa being so gentle? He was angry at Scar for having risked his life, and angry at his brother for having spoken back against him, and usually that sort of thing would have left the older man in a fury, so that he would take Scar almost brutally, and yet he was going so slow still, moving so gently and carefully that it was almost as if he was 'making love' as opposed to mere 'fucking', and it left Scar feeling rather angry himself. He did not want to be made love to by his own brother. He had never 'made love' in his life, and the very last thing he wanted was for Mufasa to pretend like this was something other than what it was. Didn't Mufasa have a girlfriend, a fiancée even? Why couldn't he do this with _her_? Why couldn't he take someone gently who wanted to be taken in such a manner? Why did he have to do this to Scar?

Scar hissed out as suddenly his brother engulfed his length within his mouth.

The sensation was so acutely abrupt that it had taken him entirely by surprise, and as an expression of that same surprise he had made a rather inelegant noise and gripped instinctively at the black sheets beneath him. He could feel the smooth and cool sheets crumple in his grip, the thin material bunching about his body as he gathered it higher up the bed, and at such a sight and sound Mufasa seemed to revel in pleasure. Mufasa clearly misinterpreted such actions as being those of desire and want, and short of kicking the man there was nothing Scar could do to convince him otherwise.

He could feel Mufasa sucking and tugging at his length in a rather expert way. If it wasn't for the fact Scar had experienced first hand those miserable failed attempts at giving oral sex in their first few encounters, he may have easily believed that Mufasa had been around with a fair few males, after all it was impossible for any man to be so good at such a task without much practise. Mufasa, of course, _had _practise . . . he had Scar to do with what he wanted when he wanted over a large span of time, and so he had not only learned all those little tricks that made common whores into expert escorts, but he had also learned all the little things that _Scar _liked and disliked, and he was able to use those to his advantage. He pulled his hands down to grab a hold of his brother's legs and pulled them apart, spreading those legs to get better access to the hidden treasure that lay between those sweet tasting limbs. His lips created the perfect vacuum, his throat caused the most delicious constricting sensations as he deep-throated his brother, and his tongue knew exactly the right places to trace and touch. It was as if he sought to create heaven in hell itself, an unendurable pleasure in a tolerable pain. Scar hated Mufasa for it.

He hated himself more than anything, even though his hatred should have predominately been aimed at his wretched brother. He hated how he was now fully erect. He hated how he couldn't help but let out groans of pleasure, little choked and staccato sounds that were so high-pitched that it robbed him of his masculinity. He hated how his hands clenched so hard into the sheets that he was afraid they would tear, how he could hear his heart pounding so loud in his ears that the flowing blood sounded like the crashing waves of an ocean, and he hated how hot his skin felt . . . how even though he wanted to cry and scream and beg for Mufasa to stop that he couldn't, and all he could do was to feel the pleasure, pleasure that he did not want.

Just as he thought he might reach his peak Mufasa slowed down and slowly began to stroke Scar's inner thigh, moving in slow and gentle circles as if trying to soothe him, and as the nineteen-year-old came down from his ever-increasing high he began to realise just what those movements meant. It was as if Mufasa sought to comfort him, to calm him, as if he wanted to ease something to come, and as his mouth slowed down to a very gentle pace his hair began to tickle Scar's skin intolerably.

It was then that a long finger came from the side of the opposing thigh and began to tease his hole. Ah, yes, now they had reached the crux of the matter, now Mufasa tried to distract his baby brother as he took what he wanted, as he stole some pleasure for himself at the sacrifice of some of Scar's own enjoyment. There was no lubrication, but then again there very rarely was . . . sometimes when Mufasa wanted it to be 'special' he would use lubrication and condoms, usually he would make do with saliva and good preparation, and on the occasions when Scar had been 'bad' he would take him dry with minimal preparation, leaving the cleaning of the semen, sweat and blood-stained sheets to Scar to deal with. He knew that Mufasa would want to punish him by hurting him, but at the same time the older man could never bear to hurt him too much, he 'loved' him and this was an expression of that 'love'. He would force Scar to enjoy what was to come. He would make Scar hate him.

Scar bit his lip hard as he felt that finger press into him. It began so teasingly, just a gentle rubbing along that thick circle, teasing those muscles that were tightly pressed to a puckered point, but then he had begun to slide inside . . . Scar knew from experience that to relax as much as possible, and strangely that by pushing out, he could let the finger in much easier, but it still felt disgusting inside him.

Mufasa would be able to feel each ridge, the soft and conversely hard inner walls, and yet the knowledge that someone could know him so intimately . . . that they could know everything about him inside out . . . it terrified him. He hated most of all knowing that the one person to know him in such a way was the one person he despised most of all, and he hated himself for allowing it, he hated himself for being so weak. It forced him to constantly move forward. He would get stronger, he would take down Mufasa, he would one day be the one to put his brother in his place, and he would _make _his brother suffer in doing so. He would use this experience to make himself stronger. He would become strong. He had to.

The finger inside him was uncomfortable at first, but not painful. He could feel it twist and turn inside him, moving as it sought to find that one spot he despised most of all, and – just when he felt as if he would empty his stomach of its contents, disgusted with himself – he felt another finger enter him, stretching him. In the absence of lubrication there was an ever so slight burn, but the mouth upon his now half-erect member distracted him . . . his erection was wilting, but it seemed that merely inspired Mufasa all the more to search for his prostate, and – soon – he had found exactly what he was looking for . . .

Scar let out a loud and rough howl as those fingers pressed so deftly against his prostate gland, his mouth still working elegantly upon his length, and he was so close that he had to bite deep into his lip – enough to break the skin and cause himself to bleed – in order to hold back his impending orgasm. Mufasa seemed pleased with this and pulled his mouth away. He scissored his fingers a little and then slid in a third, it actually caused Scar to cry out in pain as he felt torn slightly, but Mufasa ignored him.

It was then that Mufasa tried to kiss him . . .

"No."

"No?" Mufasa asked, his voice breathless and thick with lust.

"What shall I say? 'Oh goody, _please _kiss me with the _same _mouth that just seconds ago was on my own very cock?' You _must _be joking."

Mufasa let out a loud laugh, almost as if Scar's sarcastic answer amused him, and then bent down to kiss and bite upon the column of his brother's neck. He seemed intent on giving Scar a love-bite, something that would force Scar to hide it using polo necks and high collars, and he would bite quite harshly at times only to follow it with loving caresses of his tongue and gentle flicks of his fingers against that pleasure spot inside him. It was the strangest mixture of pain and pleasure. Scar refused to move his body, refused to push his brother away or pull him closer, and there was nothing he could do but to let his brother finger him and suck upon him.

"You never were one to get dirty," Mufasa mocked.

Mufasa removed his fingers and spat into his hand. Scar kept his eyes shut, even though he knew that it would be impossible to see anything in any case, but Scar knew what his brother was doing . . . he was coating his length as best as he could with saliva. He knew what was about to happen. He knew what he was about to endure, but he could not find his voice to object . . . he hated Mufasa; he wanted to mock his brother, to object to what he was doing, but he could do nothing but shut his eyes and clench his eyes and try to ignore all outside stimulus.

It was impossible to ignore the pain, though. Mufasa slid in an agonising inch by inch, his right arm resting alongside Scar's head as he grunted and groaned, as he pushed inside so slowly that Scar felt as if he could feel every stretch and tear. He was grateful for what preparation there was, he was grateful that his brother had stretched him just enough to accommodate the size of his girth, but with the lack of lubrication the friction and stretch was too much to rightfully bear. It burned. It felt unnaturally wide, like being cut into two, but somehow there was just enough stimulation for it to actually be endurable, like a faint glimmer of pleasure past all those layers of pain, and – despite the situation – Mufasa would reach for his member, playing with it and teasing it, giving him pleasure despite the pain. He felt sick with himself as he felt the pre-come slipping from his slit, feeling the pleasure build within his abdomen, and all he knew was that he refused to shed a tear. He refused to show weakness.

Mufasa began a quick and rough pace, _finally _demonstrating his frustration and anger in his almost relentless and powerful movements, his thrusts were well aimed so that each one seemed to strike Scar at the perfect angle. How was it that a thrust so bruising, so burning, could feel so enjoyable also? Scar knew that he lacked any form of masochism whatsoever, but he still enjoyed the act . . . he enjoyed what Mufasa was doing, how could that be? His brother's grip upon his penis was becoming erratic, his pumping fast as his own thrusts, and Scar could feel his brother's other hand by his head stroking and pulling at his hair.

Scar could feel his inner walls begin to flutter around the invader inside of him, and as Mufasa moved and grunted that boiling feeling inside his stomach grew stronger and stronger, each thrust sending shivers down his spine. He hated the way a warm sweat broke over his body, despised how his own throat issued out gasped and choked breaths, and the deep cut down his eye seemed to throb in time to his own racing heartbeat. A few seconds later . . . he came.

It was such a weak feeling, but the way it washed over him brought him a momentary feeling of relief. He could feel all the pressure inside him build into one point, only to be violently ejected from him in one go, and as that relief came he could feel the hot and wet come splash across his chest in a large spray. The shame of having come to something he so despised then followed. It made him feel guilty, _dirty_, so that he wanted to scrub away his own semen and scratch away the top layer of flesh, he wanted to rid himself totally and completely of Mufasa's touch, he wanted to be pure again, to be clean, and yet Mufasa was still pounding within him, taking pleasure of him, and then . . . he roared his own climax. Suddenly the pounding stopped, only to be replaced with a sickening feeling of burning heat within his rear, and he knew – he _knew _– that his brother had came inside him.

After a few seconds Mufasa pulled out and got to his feet.

Scar would have felt offended as his brother pulled back the nearest bed curtain and fluttered around finding his clothes, but in all honesty he was just glad that his brother was going. He would be able to call his friends and meet them later, to pretend that everything was fine and normal, to make plans with them about his brother's eventual downfall, to feel superior in their less-than-intelligent presence, and he could forget – for one moment in time – that _this _was what his life was about. It was then that Mufasa threw a shirt at him, causing him to glare at his brother.

"Get dressed, Scar," Mufasa said, dressing quickly. "Do not forget to apologise to our father when you see him. No doubt the story of your confrontation with the gang members, and how you obtained that scar, will have been circulated into the papers by now. You owe it to Father to apologise and at least show a modicum of remorse."

"Is that so?" Scar said with a dark smile. "Then you wish me to bed him, too?"

Mufasa glared at his brother in absolute disgust. The look of venom in his eyes was clear even in the darkened room, those golden-brown eyes burrowing deep into Scar's skin as if he sought to burn his baby brother with that accusatory state, and as he stared his brother's aura seemed to emit a heavy sense of offence and horror. How strange it was that to bed one's own father could be a mortal sin to the very man who chose to bed his own brother? Scar had to wonder where the line was in Mufasa's perverse moral codes. What made one so wrong and one so right?

Oh, sometimes he thought that he would confess their sins to his father. He loved to mull that potential conversation over in his head, wondering how disgusted and pained their father would be, how heartbroken and devastated that his own sons could do something so sinful, and then to know that it was not a reciprocal process . . . his love for Mufasa would be utterly destroyed. His brother would lose all that honour, respect and integrity that he had sought so hard to obtain, and he would lose everything, and everything would become Scar's. It was a foolish dream, a foolish idea to even think that their father would care . . . Scar had tried to speak of their sins in the past, but Mufasa was the favourite and the favourite was not capable of such horrors. Scar had been punished twice that day. His father had hated him for speaking so ill of Mufasa, and Mufasa had resented being told upon.

Scar merely continued to lie down and watched his brother as he dressed, until – at long last – Mufasa left without saying a word. It was a stark reversal to their usually situation, because more often than not it would be Scar who turned his back upon the elder man, not the other way around, but he had offended Mufasa, had he not? He could not help but be somewhat pleased that he had hurt his brother's sensibilities, after all _he _was the one with the physical bruises and the cut rectum, what would one little insult hurt?

Out of a strange sense of instinct he found his hand reaching for his scar . . .

He had been foolish indeed to try and instigate a fight between his brother and a pathetic, local gang. It was a silly idea that had been inspired by his friend's suggestions, but it had backfired dramatically . . . what he needed was a way of truly taking away every thing that Mufasa had, of making it so that there was no real way of ever getting it back. Scar deserved justice, he deserved everything that his brother had, and he wanted to square things with Mufasa once and for all . . . to take all that injustice he had suffered and to square it so that Mufasa suffered infinitely more than he ever had. If he didn't think that death was too merciful he might have even planned for his brother's death, but that was a last extreme . . . he couldn't risk jail.

The scar on his eye would be a constant reminder to think before he ever acted again, to plan his actions with more forethought than he considered himself capable of, and it would serve forever to remind him of what _Mufasa _was capable of. If it hadn't been for his brother then he would never have been cut, he would never have been scarred, and so it would serve to help him to never forget . . . it would push him into action, force him to get his revenge.

He hated Mufasa, and the scar he had obtained would forever remind him of _what _exactly he owed his brother . . . he would get his revenge. He would get exactly what he deserved, and his own reflection would attain to that fact, it spoke volumes more about what would happen than his own mouth ever could.

Mufasa would pay.


End file.
